Foresight
by MonicaMeMe
Summary: Response to P.L Wynter's challenge: What exactly would make Dean stop hunting?


**A/N: **Still working on and devoted to "Choices", but took a quick break from that to respond to P.L Wynter's challenge: _What exactly would make Dean stop hunting?_

Please read and review - I love hearing what you guys think :) _  
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**Foresight**

Dean stood his ground, holding his breath, willing the creature closer. He ignored the instincts tensing up his muscles, screaming at him to turn and run. To do the safe thing for once, the smart thing. To forget about playing the hero and taking the risk. But, instead, he watched as the large, scaly creature barreled towards him, and he let his fingers slowly inch towards the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. He was playing bait, and he planned to bite back.

But just when Dean was about to whip out his gun and kill this thing once and for all, a loud blast rang out - the shot echoing in the cluttered warehouse, the bullet clipping the creature in its arm. It cried out – a harsh, guttural sound that pierced the air, its blood spraying Dean in the face. Dean only had a second to register what had happened – that Sam had shot at the creature, that Dean had its thick, sticky blood dripping from his face – before he saw a blur of colour swing towards his head as the creature lashed out against the pain. Dean heard the sickening sound of his own flesh tearing a second before he felt the claws dig a hot, searing trail across one side of his face. And, suddenly, Dean felt the breath leave his lungs as he hit the cold concrete beneath him.

"Dean!"

From somewhere beyond the haze of pain that had engulfed him – emanating from the raw cuts carved into his face, Dean heard Sam shout his name. He forced his eyes open and, through the blood dripping into his eyelashes, Dean saw his brother aim for the creature again. But it was too fast, becoming a blur of colour as it dodged the bullet and dived behind a large stack of boxes and crates.

Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, swearing to no end as the fresh cuts pulsated, sending out sharp pangs every time he tried to frown.

Sam was by his side in a second, staring at his brother's bloodied face with wide eyes. "Dean, are you okay?" he asked, grabbing Dean's arm and pulling him from the floor.

Dean shot Sam an incredulous look, blinking furiously as the blood dripped into his eye. "My face was almost torn off. Why do people always ask that question at the most inappropriate times!" He wiped the blood away impatiently.

But, from the corner of that eye, Dean saw the blur of green and blue reappear and hurtle towards them. He tried to shove Sam out of the way, but had underestimated that thing's speed. Before Dean had a chance to move, to react, to warn Sam, it was shoving Dean back onto to the cold floor and landing a sickening blow to Sam's head. Dean's breath froze in his lungs as he heard a crack ring out. He watched helplessly as Sam was flung across the room, landing in a heap of cardboard boxes that collapsed beneath his weight.

"No!" Dean cried out, grabbing the pistol from his waistband and pulling the trigger in a quick succession of shots, aiming wildly, randomly, angrily. It wasn't him pulling the trigger – the expertly trained, battle-smart soldier. It was his rage. It was the sound of Sam being hit – and hit hard – replayed over and over in his head as his finger squeezed the trigger again and again in his hand. It was the rage mingling with the blood still dripping into his eye, turning his vision red.

The blur whipped to the side, again disappearing into the stacks. Dean lowered his gun, the rage disappearing with the blur until all that was left was a numbing fear.

"Sam!" he yelled, running to where Sam had landed. A grunt met his call and Dean almost sunk to the ground in relief. He squinted through the blood and the dark, trying to make out his brother's shape through the blotchy darkness and the shadows it nurtured. A smirk, born out of relief and a vague feeling of hysteria, hijacked his face when he saw Sam struggling to untangle his long limbs from the boxes as they slid and parted beneath him.

Dean jogged up to him and lifted Sam from the cardboard rubble.

Sam swayed on his feet, holding his hand hesitantly towards his head, torn between wanting to cup his dizzy head and wanting to keep his hands lowered and ready to support himself in case he tipped over.

Dean saved him the choice, grabbing Sam by the shoulders. "Whoa, hey," he said, watching with growing concern as Sam blinked rapidly and looked around in bewilderment. "Steady there, sway-erella." He tapped Sam's cheeks lightly when Sam refused to acknowledge his presence. On the side of Sam's forehead sat a nasty looking cut surrounded by swollen, blue skin. A growing knot of fear and anger formed in Dean's stomach.

But just when that knot was about to engulf him, Sam stopped swaying and his eyes finally focused. "Why am I always getting thrown across a room?" he slurred.

Dean smiled, the knot loosening. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He held up two fingers.

Sam squinted a bit. "Eleven?"

Dean raised an eyebrow before shrugging. "Close enough." He grabbed Sam by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him forward, dragging them both through the maze of boxes and crates and back into the hiding spot they'd originally launched their attack from.

Sam slid down against one of the large, metal crates, the cold concrete cutting through the pounding in his head and clearing his vision a little. Dean slumped down beside him, breathing hard, blood glistening on the side of his face. Sam noticed him look over and readied himself to assure Dean that he was okay. But the next thing he knew, Dean was punching him in the shoulder. Hard.

"What was that for!" Sam whispered angrily, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Dean.

"Nice one, Sammy, make that thing even more angry. Maybe next time I'll just douse myself in butter and paint a giant yellow M on my chest." Dean impatiently wiped more blood from his eye. His fingers were already stained red.

"What are you talking about?" Sam stared at Dean incredulously. What did he have to be mad about?

"Why'd you have to shoot at it?" Dean asked by way of explanation.

Sam just shook his head, confusion ebbing away the pain in his head. "Are you sure I'm the one with the head injury? It was about to shishkabob you, Dean, I couldn't just sit back and watch."

"I had a plan," Dean growled.

"Was being shishkabobbed part of that plan?"

"Yes!"

Sam frowned. Maybe it was the pounding in his head, but it sounded like his brother had finally lost it. "…What?"

Dean rolled his eyes and moved to the other side of their small hiding place, peeking around the metal crate to see if the creature had found them yet. "See this gun?" he said, looking back at Sam and holding up the pistol. "It was hidden for a reason. That thing's too fast for us to kill. But if I led it right up to me, I'd be able to actually get a clear shot. Gun out. Bam. It's raining monster guts."

Sam blinked at Dean. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Dean."

Dean frowned. "No, Tom Cruise jumping on a couch screaming 'I'm in love' is the stupidest thing you've ever heard."

Sam sighed and shook his head again. "You could have at least told me the plan."

"I did!"

"'Sit tight, princess, I'll be back' is not telling me the plan, Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean smirked at his own words flung back at him and leaned forward again, his eyes trying to see past the shadows and catch the creature's whereabouts. But he flinched and jerked back when he felt something press against the cuts on his face. "What are you doing?" he asked in alarm, as Sam pulled away with a torn piece of clothing in his hand.

Sam held up his hands, determined not to laugh at Dean's wide eyes and accusing look. "Here," he said, passing Dean the cloth.

Dean slowly reached for it, not sure whether to scowl at Sam for mother-henning him, or to smile at his brother's resourcefulness. So he nodded his thanks instead, and started dabbing at his face, wincing as the fabric made contact with the weeping cuts.

Sam watched for a second, noting with a small shudder the way Dean's flesh had been ripped open, bits of skin hanging from the sides of the cuts like wilting, red petals. That was going to leave some scars. Some big ones.

"Hey," Dean whispered, reaching back to whack Sam's leg. He was peering out at the dark warehouse, his eyes widening.

Sam scrambled up, ignoring the pounding in his head, and crouched next to Dean. Dean looked over at him, a grin lighting up his eyes. "The hostages. They're in this warehouse. Still alive and kicking."

Hope danced inside Sam's chest – they'd been looking for this group for a week now. He'd been sure they were too late. "Wha… How do you know?"

"Listen."

Sam quieted his breath and strained his ears. And, sure enough, from somewhere in the distance, muffled and thick, came the sound of shouting. And banging.

"Alive and kicking," Dean smiled. "Literally." He picked back up his gun and slipped out of their hiding spot and into the closest shadow. Sam followed, eyes alert.

Sticking to the shadows, Dean and Sam quickly, if quietly, followed the shouting until they reached its source. A steel door near the back. Sam rattled the handle, just to be safe. Neither was surprised when the door didn't budge. Sam glanced over at Dean, who nodded and stepped back, gun drawn, covering Sam's back.

Sam stepped up to the door and spoke as loudly as he dared. "Uh, hello?"

Dean shot Sam a look that physically spelt out 'pathetic, man'. How Dean was able to insult without actual words was beyond Sam.

"Help us!" a chorus of voices shouted back after a stunned pause. The voices and words began to overlap and increase in volume, turning into a cacophony of fear and desperation.

"Look, I'm going to shoot the lock off, so I need you all to step back from the door. It's important. We're here to help, okay?" Sam spoke clearly, his face leaning in close to the door. He heard a collective shuffle as the group moved away. Sam took a deep breath and aimed his gun at the door, tilting it downward so that the bullet would cut into the floor and not the people he was trying to save. He pulled the trigger and the shot rang out, followed by a sharp _zing _as the bullet ate through the lock.

On hearing the shot, Dean turned and stepped in front of Sam, quickly pushing open the door before Sam had a chance to protest. What greeted the brothers inside was a group of about seven people - ragged, frightened, but with all their limbs attached. And in the brothers' eyes, that was a victory worth celebrating.

"Who are you?" an older man asked, his white hair coloured black with dirt, his eyes shining with distrust.

"It's okay," Sam said, holding out his hands so that his gun was pointing up and away from them. He ignored the fact that Dean wasn't doing the same. "We're going to get you out of here, okay? That…thing…that took you, it doesn't like large groups. If we stick together and move fast we should be able to get you out of this nightmare."

"You didn't answer my question, who are you?" the same man asked, reaching out his arm to stop a few of the people who'd begun to move forward.

"The good guys," Dean answered, moving his gun away from the group, realizing he might be spooking them with it. "Batman and Robin. Two lone gunmen. Wandering nomads with a mission. Two freaks with hero complexes. Whatever your deal is, we're them." He motioned to Sam with his head. "And he's the sidekick."

Sam scoffed and shook his head. "I have no say in that, do I?"

"No, you're the sidekick, dude. You don't have a say."

Sam smiled, noticing that his and Dean's easy banter seemed to be relaxing the group. "Maybe I'll join the union and see what they have to say about that."

Dean shot Sam a playful frown, also noticing the group's distrust begin to melt. "Come on," he said to them, waving at the door. "Us heroes have schedules to keep."

The group began shuffling towards the door. Each one glancing at Dean's ravaged face as they passed. Sam's heartstrings tugged when he noticed Dean discreetly turn his face to the side, suddenly self-conscious after noticing that he'd, in the span of one hunt, one second, become the freak show he'd always seen himself as.

But then a young woman, about Sam's age, passed by and Dean's eyes lit up. "Hi there," Dean grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled Dean away with a smirk. "Your brain is never one hundred percent in control, is it?"

Dean shrugged, eyebrows lifting innocently. He wasn't about to deny it. Sam snorted and followed the group out, weary of leaving them alone out there. Dean was about to follow when he felt another presence in the room. He turned to find an old man, bent and wrinkled – frail would be the best word to use – standing near the back of the small room.

"You need some help?" Dean asked, moving up to him.

The old man just smiled – a smile that seemed to take an eternity to teach his eyes. "Every superhero meets their match. One day."

The door to the small room slammed shut behind Dean.

"Every superhero has their kryptonite," the man spoke again, that chilling smile still sitting on his face.

Dean looked from the door to the old man, sighing heavily and hanging his head. From behind him he heard the handle rattle and Sam's muffled voice call out his name.

"I know there's always gotta be a twist involved," Dean said. "But seriously, an old man with a bit of psychic hankering pankering? Dude, my brother can do that trick."

The man's eyes suddenly turned milky white.

A little disconcerted, Dean frowned. "Okay, so an old man with a bit of psychic hankering pankering and some weird-assed eye thing."

Suddenly the air began to prickle around Dean, shimmering and tightening.

Dean gulped. "Okay, and with some power over the air."

The man bore his teeth in a scowl and Dean found himself flying through the air and slamming up against the door with enough force to knock out his breath and make his teeth rattle. Dean slid to the floor, sucking in air to replace what had been knocked out of him. "Okay, man, I get it," Dean grimaced, struggling back up. "You're a threat. Worthy opponent and all, got it."

Sam had been calling Dean's name and banging on the door – more from confusion than anything else. But the instant Dean collided with the door – his back connecting with a resounding thud, Sam froze, fear creeping up his spine and replacing the confusion. That was the sound of trouble.

"Dean!" he yelled more urgently, moving back and kicking the door, slamming against it with his shoulder, yanking and tugging at the handle. But it refused to budge.

Keeping a weary eye on the old man, Dean turned towards the splintered door. "I'm a little busy here, Sam," he shouted through it. He could hear the muffled sounds of Sam yelling and pounding, the urgency clearly displayed in the commotion. Dean wanted Sam to know that he was okay. For now. "I found the thing's owner. He's a grumpy old man. What do you know, huh? I loved that movie."

Dean's eyes flickered towards the old man as he growled in disapproval.

Dean lifted his hand to his mouth in mock concern. "Oh I'm sorry. What should I call you? Psycho grandpa? Gandhi's estranged evil cousin? Dick?"

The old man barely flickered an eye, but Dean felt the air knocked out of him again as he was tossed through the air, his shoulder colliding with the stone wall with such force that his head swung forward and his torn cheek smashed up against the wall.

The sudden spike of pain, the fire that sprung out from his raw nerves, from the way the cold, rough stone scraped against his bloodied face, tore into Dean and he couldn't help crying out. He fell to his knees, unable to do anything but stare for a second. Stare at the black and white dots exploding in front of his vision. Stunned, Dean reached up and pressed a hand against his face. Feeling the unnatural way his once-smooth skin curved and jutted with foreign ridges, he quickly pulled away. His hand came back coated in blood.

The old man's eyes gleamed. "Do superheroes look like monsters?"

Dean stood up angrily, ignoring the stinging in his face and the blood that was again dripping into his eyelashes. "So I guess this is why you've adopted Fido out there. Housed it, bathed it, _feeding _it prime human beings. You're doing it for the telekinetic powers. You must want those powers bad, very few people have ever been able to harvest the powers those creatures offer. They don't really like sharing. I'd be impressed if I wasn't, you know, pissed-assed vengeful-like."

The old man cocked his head a little and stared at Dean like one would an interesting art display. "No," he finally said, as if he'd decided to humour this figure in front of him. This boy with the bloodied face and bold attitude. "These powers are my own. Yes, using that creature's blood enhances them a little. But that's not what I'm using it for. What it gives me is foresight into the future."

Dean frowned. Well this was new. "You can see the future?"

The old man smiled, almost impatiently. "No one can see the future."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Uh…I think dementia's setting in, pal, 'cause you just said…" Dean trailed off, sighing. "Never mind. Yes, foresight, good for you old man." He knew better, by now, than to try to make sense of the loonies he came across in this life of his.

The old man elaborated, smiling like he would to some hapless moron. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Eldest Winchester brother. Daddy's little soldier. The future isn't set in stone. We always have choices. Free will. It doesn't let me see into _the _future. I see the _futures_. I see every possibility, every butterfly effect. The creature has given me the foresight to avoid my own death, my own downfall. Time and time again. Can your tiny little head even fathom what power that brings me? I knew you were coming today – I saw it. And I know that your brother, right now, is using that nifty journal of your father's to try to magic away my connection with The Creature. But I also know that I'll escape here. Unharmed. That I'll be long gone before that spell of your brother's is complete. And that you'll let me."

Anger began to coil up in Dean's chest, and yes, if he let himself think about it, let himself admit it, he'd realize that anger was willed on by fear – by the man's calm milky eyes, by how sure they looked. But the smile lifting his lips and the gravelly words that left his throat. By the way the man had said his name, _known _his name. But, more than anything else, by the fact that Dean believed him.

"You're crazy, grandpa," Dean spat, letting his anger push aside his fear. "And not the point-and-laugh crazy, but the kind that would have killed all those people just to, what, live a little longer? I am not about to let that kind of crazy out into the world." Dean drew out his gun and pointed it, trigger finger locked and ready. "The world has enough problems without having to look at your wrinkled ass. Dude, have you ever heard of botox?"

The man smiled and turned. A stack of boxes flung to the side at his mental command, and, to Dean's surprise, a door stood in their place.

The man turned back to Dean, lifting his knobby shoulders in a slight shrug. "I needed an exit for when my pet begins his feeding. It can get a bit excited sometimes. Bite off the hand that feeds him. Now, if you'll excuse me, your brother's spell is about to kick in, so I'll be on my way."

Dean edged closer, gun held out firmly. "Your hearing aid must be broken, because you obviously didn't hear me."

The old man turned back around, his wrinkled face darkening as his smile deepened, and with it the creases on his face. He stepped up closer to Dean, black pupils beginning to emerge from his milky eyes. "I know your future," he whispered, the sound like sandpaper, scraping through the air and plunging painfully into Dean's ears.

Dean froze, his breath caught in his throat and a hot flush beginning to creep over his skin.

The man stepped closer, not even looking at the gun pointed at his chest, but staring at Dean with a barely concealed delight. "The number of possibilities…" He moved in even closer, leaning towards Dean's ear, his hot, moist breath causing Goosebumps to erupt along Dean's neck and it was all Dean could do not to shudder. "About Sam…" the old man whispered.

Dean snapped back, eyes widening. But before he had a chance to react, to absorb that information, the old man's eyes began to glow red and the air around Dean prickled, clinging to the cuts on his face, pinching his skin, weighing at his clothes. And from the old man a black, formless energy began to rise, circling Dean until the room disappeared, until the man disappeared, until Sam's shouts disappeared, until all Dean could see was that black mist and those glowing red eyes. Until all Dean could feel was a cold that ate into his bones, constricted his chest, froze his body. And then the mist plunged, delving into Dean's ears and eyes and mouth, wrapping around his throat and squeezing.

Dean couldn't breathe, but he could see. Flashes. Of him and Sam and their dad. Flashes. Screaming past his vision. Flashes. Of blood, so much blood. Of Sam and his dad. Of the hunt wearing on, wearing them down. Of Sam being torn into by this entity, that entity, every deadly, agonizing, gruesome, heartbreaking possibility flashing past Dean's eyes. He wanted to shut his eyes, shut out the images, but they kept coming, pounding into his head, scarring his mind. Sam's flesh being torn open, Sam's blood spurting out, Sam's tortured scream cutting through the night. Sam's eyes staring blankly, his clothing torn, his hands broken. Of Dean's own scarred, disfigured face screaming in horror as he watches his brother's life snuffed out in a split second, his father's following in a courageous dive. Sam's eyes staring blankly. Of his dad taking a bullet for Dean, of Sam being ripped away from his normal life, from his wife, from his kids, to be tied, bound, tortured, ransomed. Sam's eyes staring blankly. His family used against him by the creatures Dean hunts. Willingly hunts. Of the trail of death and destruction Dean leaves behind as he chases after danger. As it catches up with his family instead. Red, so much red. Tears and lives extinguished in split seconds. No time to think, to act, to say goodbye. They were gone. And he was left. Scarred, bitter, broken.

"No!" Dean screamed, his voice breaking through the mist trying to strangle him, breaking through the horror, the images flitting in front of his eyes. He hears a thud as his knees hit the ground, tastes copper as blood drips from his nose and eyes, running past his lips. He tries to escape the images, to run into another memory, any other memory. Of Sam and him bantering. Of Cassie or of his mother before she was killed. But the death is following his thoughts like a rabid dog, biting into every thought, every memory, every comfort he once knew. Until death is all that's left.

"Stop it!" Dean screamed, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his face as the images swirl faster and faster in Dean's head. Sam dead. His dad dead. Sam broken. His dad broken. So much death. So much blood. Staring blankly. Always staring blankly. And Red. So much Red. Red blood. Red anger. Red loss. Red tears.

The images blur and slow down, slowly receding into the black distance, leaving Dean slumped on the floor in that small room. Shaking. Cold. Red tears blurring his vision. The mist is untangling itself from Dean's throat and eyes, but he still can't breathe. Can't rid the images from his head. They're seared into his memory – a bloodied tattoo cutting deeper than the scars on his cheek ever will.

"I'm a powerful enemy," a voice – that voice – gravelly and cold, shattered into the haze surrounding Dean. "You don't stop meddling, stop chasing me, chasing my pet, hunting down my allies, and I swear on all that is dead and evil, that I will make one of those scenarios come true. I promise you that."

And Dean knew, with absolute certainty, that the old man was telling the truth. Had shown him the truth. It wasn't the threat that buckled Dean's resolve and shattered into his strength, it was the certainty; that magical, unexplainable ability to see the path that would lead to their deaths. And he was traveling on it right now. That if he kept hunting, Sam and his dad would pay the price. They would never escape the danger Dean readily sought.

Dean looked up, blinking past the dirt and tears and blood, when he heard the man shuffling towards the door. Towards his escape. The man stopped, turning around to look at Dean and the gun lying next to him, begging to be picked up. Death sucked in the stale, cold air, looking from the gun to the old man. Feeling something crumple inside his chest, Dean used what little strength he had left to push the gun away. The old man smiled and disappeared into the night.

* * *

The door swung open on its own and Sam rushed inside, stopping short when he saw Dean on his knees, blood running now not only from his torn face but from his eyes and nose. He was staring at an open door at the other end of the room. He looked stunned, dazed, lost. 

"Dean?" Sam ran up to his brother, at his side in a second, hands cupping his face and eyes scouring for a sign. Some telltale clue to what had happened. "Can you hear me, Dean?" Fear began to climb back up his spine, why wasn't he responding!

But suddenly Dean lifted his eyes and looked him directly in the face. And did something wholly unexpected. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Hey, it's okay," Sam soothed, rubbing Dean's back in circular motions, confused and unsettled. Something was wrong. Something was different. Dean's resolve was gone, replaced with a heartbreaking resignation.

Sam gently pulled away, watching Dean carefully, keeping a firm hand on Dean's shoulder. His eyes flitted towards the open door. "Think we should get these people out of here and then go after this bitch?" Sam asked, trying to fill in the silence with Dean's special brand of speech.

Dean looked up, startled. He looked over at the group of harried, scared people peering in at them from the doorway, then over at the open door, and then back at Sam. Dean clenched his jaw and looked away. "No," he whispered. "I've given up the hunt."

* * *

Sam sat on his motel bed, watching as Dean pulled out weapon after weapon from his bag, chucking them in a pile on the floor. The room was coated in a heavy, weighted silence. The _chink _of weapons piling on top of weapons was the only sound filling the small room. 

Dean had filled Sam in on what had happened. Reluctantly. Quietly. Sam didn't know what to think or feel. So he just watched as Dean avoided his gaze, sorting through his weapons, keeping only a few, giving up the rest.

"I'll help you find Dad," Dean finally said, his voice ringing out louder than it should, given the quiet. "Then I'm out of this fight." He still refused to look at Sam, his face turned away so that all Sam could see was the deep, jagged trails marring one side of his face, cutting over one eye. They would never fully heal.

Sam licked his lips, not really knowing what to say. "What are you going to do?" he finally asked, feeling a vague tinge of envy. But it disappeared the instant Dean turned to look him in the eyes.

For a second, Dean looked completely lost. Shell shocked. Eyes shining with uncertainty. And Sam suddenly knew what Dean had looked like that night their mother died, twenty two years ago.

"I don't know," Dean replied, eyes flitting away again. He turned back around and continued to sort through his weapons. _Chink._

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* * *

The End  
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